


Common Beast

by solipsist



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: FNAF3, ding dong the bitch is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 00:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15107732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsist/pseuds/solipsist
Summary: committing suicide in front of my cat **GONE WRONG





	Common Beast

His skin is sticky with anxiety. There’s a gentle rhythm he has developed, his manicured nails drag along his arms in the same circular motion, and his palm comes after to soothe the burning sensations. His ears ring with red bumpy noises.  
The late hour bears down on him, and as terrified as William is, he cannot hold back a yawn. His lip curls past canines and slide down just as quickly, and his tongue folds in to contain a drip of silvia that threatens to drip onto the floor. The floor was originally white, but browned with age and mess. The walls remained shiny enough to observe one's reflection. 

William sits there, rubbing his arm and unwilling to move. A part of him feels cheated - he had privately hoped for a public death. An ending that would sear into the minds of any passersby and would come to them again and again in moments of duress. The concrete should have been splattered, there should be a thin crowd around him and screaming children dragged away from horrified housewives.   
Not this.   
Not this, not a death at the hands of beasts that sprouted from a drugged haze. He feels ridiculous hiding behind a row of arcade machines. But each time William summons the courage to creep out, the sight of thin white hands push him back to the cranny. He’s out of cigarettes and thick heart muscles pound and contract inside of his chest. The noise carries across the room and floods his ears, drowning out pulsing redness. 

At the risk of reddening his skin, William grabs himself and rubs his face harshly. Recirculation of blood served to return his jaded exterior and he pulled himself up to lazily glare at the snapping creatures in mild disinterest.   
There’s only a few steps he can take. Each movement seems to be weighted down with invisible sandbags, hands and things pull down at him, threatening to drown him in cottony mist that barely exists beyond the corners of his veiny eyes.  
William makes a harsh, barking noise and snarls at unseeable creatures, and his perfect white teeth bare in the dimly lit room. He screams, harshly blistering his throat, and shoves the Springtrap mask on his head. Mania leaps up in his chest and the rest of his body follows suit. William begins to shake from an overflow of adrenaline and anxiety spikes, the torso is pushed on haphazardly. Unable to stave them off any longer, froth spills from his cracked lips and his body wildly slams onto the polished walls.   
Fingers are snapped. Metal and spikes press in. Screams of delight are heard, and blood mixes into the white foam. 

The suit trembles now as it swings to face hidden animals. 

Is this what you wanted, bastards? Look at me - look at me! Oh my God -   
No words are spoken. The jaw falls open, he spits at the floor and heaves his chest as lungs are punctured and slowly fill with liquid. The world is forgotten to him as he crashes into plastic games. William’s jaw twitches, as if speaking or laughing.  
If he has been denied the death he wanted, then he would put a show on for himself. 

Are you ready, are you ready?  
The only noises made are faint grunts as he pull himself away from the fallen machines. He spits out more liquid and his tongue lolls out. His throat can no longer contain anything else as organs slowly push up inside of him. Another finger breaks as he bends the large hand into a palm. The phone falls to the floor while numbers just barely register in the machine. 

Determined to make it known, determined to not die in vain, William collapses to the floor and is just barely able to support the weight of metal and plastic weighing down on his back. It goes to voicemail. He can taste his own liver. There’s nothing to say, nothing to curse Henry with or for. Something in his neck threatens to pop loose when he opens his mouth.  
The scream he makes, the laughter that follows, drains the last of his body’s willpower to fight the extension of his death. On stolen time, William’s arms give away and hug himself while he chokes on live audio. God could only tell him how Henry had managed to sleep through the cacophony. Weakly, he spits out the last blood and gave way to acid that scarred the insides of his mouth and melted his mouth when his stomach had been squeezed beyond saving. 

Bastards, bastards, bastards made me do it, was the living corpse’s last thought.


End file.
